


Epikhairekakía

by memphisgreen



Series: Greek Tragedy [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU of an AU of an AU, Dubious Consent, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Non-Consensual Drug Use, love potions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 07:24:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15238347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memphisgreen/pseuds/memphisgreen
Summary: The worst thing about Harriet James Potter is Tom Marvolo Riddle.





	Epikhairekakía

**Author's Note:**

> Because. Sometimes you go out with a whimper instead of a bang.

 

Her nightmares are what wake her up. New day, and she can see out the open window, see how the dark, dark _(eyes, his eyes, his eyes, everything in his eyes_ ) landscape turns grey, and she can see the hills taking shape around the roll of fog.

He’s awake beside her, accessibility at his very will, every nerve, every synapse completely exposed, completely debilitating. She feels awake, every 24 hours, _Persephone seeing green again._

He touches her. And. It’s the love potion, but it’s her, isn’t it? Free of his control. ( _but, darling, are you really? Will you ever be?)_

And then. Well, even her memories aren’t hers anymore.

 

pain and hatred and his terrible -

terrible anger and 

the red of his eyes -

and ash and heart ache and nothing left and -

blood in her mouth and fire in her lungs until

 the green is gone.

 

Differentsame girl now, sitting ahead, absolutely loved and absolutely loving one Tom Marvolo Riddle with everything in her too-big-bird-boned heart, she will shiver and shake for four and half seconds and remember an ice wire smile and even the fire going, too hot for late summer, will not warm the empty cavern in her chest.

But she waits. And he fire calls for lunch like he does every day, and today it’s a very pleasant call so she’s feeling exceptionally bright from the shine of his smile. He asks her about her day, and she asks about his, and then he reminds her about their dinner at the Malfoy’s this weekend (she had completely forgot, silly Harriet). His gaze is hot and heavy in the fire, brands her skin and makes cold sweat tingle in the small of her back and oddly around her neck. She smiles, shakes off these peculiar feelings and encourages his passion. He tells her naughty things, smirk on his too handsome face, too good looking by nearly half and she clenches faded bruised (the smoky ice of her mind chills her to the bone for a split second, mustn’t think about it, he tells her after. After. After what? But he smiles and she smiles and it’s forgotten between their teeth) thighs together and thinks about him coming home. _Late_ , he says, drinks with the Minister and the  _Prophet_ editor tonight to capitalize on their big win last month, and she’s proud of him all over again. The fact that she remembers nothing from the prior weeks(or months? Maybe years?) does not escape her notice. She just feels the pull away from the string of her worry, away from the curiosity of it all. Father had always said, _Child, you will ask me a question if you are curious,_  but Tom gently, but firmly dissuades her of inquisitiveness in the state of her own life. And, of course, Father is not here to ask such things.

She feels sadness drape around her, orphaned now. No mother, No Father. Only Tom. But she smiles, side eyes the fire where he’s disappeared. He’s all that she needs.

She goes about her day, and she sits on their bed after her afternoon bath, and she can’t stop herself from gazing onto the balcony, the heavy granite table making her stomach clench in all the wrong ways. She _hates_ it and - something.

Something.

Something isn’t right. She’s forgotten to give Dwarby the shopping list (her eyes, the kindness of a too wide grin looks just like-) and she needs castor sugar.

She plans to bake tonight. Tom, dear darling, will wine and dine and be home very late indeed. He will be at the ministry and then dinner and drinks and -

The Ministry.

The word itself burns the pyres of her anger. She hates the ministry. She dare not speak a word to Tom, his job is very important to him, to them. But when she’s home, without Tom, she’ll narrow eyes and cut nails into palms. But. Dinner and drinks will mean that she bakes, that she can let her mind drift among the dough and batter of her creations.

But first her own dinner, seven sharp in the kitchen with the elves because Tom knows she gets lonely and she has a soft spot for them.

She has a small portion tonight, her stomach is all nerves lately and she wonders, wonders, and not hopes, if maybe this is finally it, maybe there will be a child.

A sudden and strange fear terrorizes her. She can’t breathe. She’s not choking but it feels pretty damn close. Dwarby rushes to her, odd little hands hovering over her, afraid to touch. But she gains composure, drinks down the whole glass of ice water and feels bile and soup and cold try to come back up.

Tom doesn’t want children. And sitting there, being petted by Dwarby, and seeing the dark shadows under her eyes reflected back in the glass of the window, she knows deep down she doesn’t want them either. Not now. Once, maybe, years and a lifetime ago. With Tom’s good looks and her skill on the broom, and how happy they could ( _why? Why is it like this?_ ) be.

She won’t finish her dinner, no matter how much Dwarby begs.

It’s time for baking, and Dwarby stops needling as soon as she sees her grimgrin brighten.

She glides in bare feet and Tom’s pants in the too modern kitchen of the manor, with gleaming surfaces and bites of cold steel and makes batch after batch of delicacies. She remembers begging Tom for the update, his indulgence, the newly married way that he catered to her. Before. Before he started to -

But.

Oh, how they bickered and fought and made love and fucked. She blushes, feeling his love and adoration down to her very soul, oh how he did this for her.

The house is Riddle Manor, but the kitchen is all hers.

Dwarby sits on her stool in the corner, eyes bright and young (she sips hot chocolate her mistress has made for her, her kind, kind mistress), sneaking glances at Harri as she dances her way around the impressive bar. This life, domestic Harri and newspaper in the morning Tom and sprawling manor and bake nights is all that Dwarby knows ( _powerful magic to obliviate an elf but Tom knows such things_ ), all she’s ever known.

Harri looks up from the resting of her dough, the seventh batch tonight, and watches Dwarby smile slowly at her mug, hum softly to the tunes that drift from the wireless and feels her broken heart crack itself right open for the little thing. Her Dwarby. Hers.

Brow furrows again. Feels like she’s missing an arm or half a life. The timer sings, jaunty little thing that it is, and she’s hopping over to one of the ovens for the batch of florentines that need the chocolate that’s tempering on the stove. She pulls off a pan of macerated berries (Dwarby had these ripened, juicy lovely things waiting for her after the afternoon bath that lasted entirely too long and the castor sugar she’d forgotten to ask for) and she’s getting her hands dirty again in the wonderful flow of her kitchen, as possessive of it as the elf that watches her with love in her eyes.

She hums along with Dwarby, sings sometimes. Spends hours lost in that kitchen with her elf. Keeps her eyes on pans and wire racks and tries not to see her face wincing back at her from all the reflective services and the string that she’s terrified to pull in her mind will tickle, will twist and flow in the emptiness of her thoughts.

She tries not to think - but she thinks - and

She thinks.

He’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to her.

She drops the tray she’s holding straight to the marble. Her hands are shaking. Her body useless while her mind runs circles around itself. Why? Why would she think that? And please, God, no, please don’t let Tom find out. Panic, pure form, wraps itself around her insides, twists and knots and takes her down to her knees beside the mess she’s made and she retches whatever little is left in her stomach.

Dwarby is by her side immediately, magicing it away.

“Oh, Dwarby.” She thinks about her baking, and the mess of the kitchen, and her poor little thing looking at her with her eyes brimmed in tears. And she bawls, loud hiccuping tears that shake and rattle the emptiness inside her.

It feels like oceans of grief, waves upon waves of terror and bitterness and _agony._ She won’t let Dwarby get her up, just keeps on her hands and knees and fights the urge to black out (but not die, she will not die, be her hand or any other) or vomit again.

“Should I get-“ Dwarby starts in her smokyhuskybeautiful voice but Harri shakes her head quickly, too quickly, gags but grabs Dwarby’s wrist before she can do anything.

“No, love. No, I’m fine. Just give us a moment.” She shakes, rattles teeth, and fights her anxiety with everything in her. She reaches to the bar and fumbles for her wand, it takes everything in her to pull herself up, a twirl of an achy wrist and the dishes start washing, then she finally lets Dwarby help her onto a stool.

Her timer goes off for its last time, dancing and prancing around in front of her. She mutters the incantation to stop it and asks Dwarby to get the last batch of scones. Makes herself get up to glaze them. She can finish now that her mind has quieted down.

She sets everything under a stasis, packs a veritable feast that she’ll send to the unfortunates tomorrow. Her heart aches for the children, muggle and magical alike that stay in the orphanages. Her own life could have been very similar to the ones she sends her charity to. And Tom, her kind love, her savior, he supports them at events and fundraising, and she loves how much he cares.

 _They’re the future, Harri, we have to make a place for them in our society._ She nods, agrees of course but his eyes are like flames, clouds of judgments and she thinks, _he doesn’t want children_ and she can’t understand his passion, she can’t understand him-

She stops herself at the bottom of the stairs.

Realizes that thinking is getting awfully dangerous lately. Feels the string, twitch, teasing, unavoidable curiosity.

Misses Father in her bones on nights like this, summer storm brewing outside and trees rattling against windows, and Father in the lab but he would let her help, he liked her silent company, preferred it over Mother’s disinterest. Until.

Until it was just the two of them.

Her nostalgia creeps like a thief in the night to rob her, to slice her throat in the dark. She sticks her wand in the loose waistband of Tom’s shorts and walks straightrightleft to the informal sitting room where a lone picture looks out from the impressive expanse of Tom’s bookcases.

Her, age ten, looking at the camera, one lone dimple on the left side of her face. Father, not smiling, never smiling but looking at her, watching her still in the moving picture. And Mother, eternally sitting in that armchair, always looking through a wide open window, her only memories of Lily that she’s managed to keep. Sometimes, they feel like the only memories she has of her.

She never felt anything but a dutiful love for her beautiful, cold mother. Her Father was rigid, unyielding, rules to follow and rewards and punishments. Her mother was unmanageable, temperamental. She’d cry for days on end, then comatose, then fake anger happiness and Father got all her sharp edges and Harri felt like she only got pity.

Harri feels her resentment wrap twine tight around her heart, the edges of understanding wanting to curl in, but she won’t let them. She is nothing like her mother. And her poor father, no children but her, and even she didn’t spring forth from him.

She has no pictures of her biological father, only has a vague grasp of what he might have looked like when she can manage to look into her own mirror. James Potter, killed when she was just a babe. Father never liked him, and from what she has gathered he was a Gryffindor through and through, prone to brashness and pranks and frivolity. She grew up on books and candles in the dark and intelligence being valued above all things. She feels like she wasn’t raised in the sunshine and air. Holds herself firm in the belief that she doesn’t resent that, resent those other little children and quite possibly her Father.

She drops to a chair, and a fire burns to life suddenly, another elf, not Dwarby, a tiny little thing that looks half the size of the log he’s lifting onto the fire.

It’s been a long summer, so hot, but she feels cold everyday.

She’s still eyeing the picture, lost in the thoughts she’s trying not to have and the feelings she’s been burying since adolescence when she finally catches Tom’s motionless form when she glances toward the windows that take up most of the wall.

She jumps, drops the picture to the floor, feels guilty all over for no reason whatsoever.

“What are you still doing up, darling?” He looks concerned (she feels like a terrible wife, she should have set the wards, should have been in his bed waiting) and he comes around to her, lifting her up with his own strong arms, and cradling her when he takes the seat she was just in.

He flicks his wrist and she watches the picture right itself back to the maze of his books.

“I was baking, and then I just came in here. Didn’t feel sleepy.” He hmmms underneath her and snaps his fingers, and it’s way too late for tea but there comes his elf, with a service tray for two. He leaves as quick as he came, nothing more than exemplary service from their elves when Master Tom beckons. He brings one steamy cup to her lips, keeps her on his lap, and makes her drink the whole thing. His eyes watch the bob of her throat, and she drinks and knows that it’s laced.

The relaxation she feels is instantaneous.

She buries her face under his chin suddenly, between suit and tie, can smell the day there, trace the flux and might of his magic on sensitive skin with her tongue, she can taste his power there between shoulder and neck, sucks a mark there just because he doesn’t stop her.

She smells cigars and alcohol over the wonderfulness of his cologne. One little bead of sweat, drops from the hollow of his collarbone to below.

She desperately wants to taste it.

But. The room feels wonderful, which means it’s way too warm. So, she helps him slide his jacket off before she slinks to her knees before him. She folds the jacket once before reaching forward to lay it across the seat of the couch to her left. Then the cuff links, beautiful emerald pieces that she got him three Christmases ago, she feels a deep warmth inside her, to know that he put them on this morning (the reverse of what she’s doing now) and thought of her. The tie and long row of buttons that he watches her undo with avid interest. He grunts a little when he leans up to let her strip him. She frowns, he’s working too hard.

“Dwarby told me you got sick in the kitchen earlier.” She freezes, her hands burrowed between top of sock and trousers. She can’t stop the knee jerk reaction of looking up at him. The eye contact she knows she should avoid. He’s in her head regardless, she can feel the whispy smoke of him, the way he clicks right into her place. She keeps her face plain, breathes like Father told her to, and let’s him in (where she can keep an eye on him). Her fingers have gone as numb as her face but she makes them work, strips him of socks, rolling them up into each other and placing them on the low table.

“I don’t know what it was.” She looks toward the windows again, the heat at her back soaking into her, finally. Finally. She goes to undo his belt when his hands latch onto her wrists and he sits up, inches between them now.

“Are you unwell? She said you haven’t been eating.” A cross expression winds around her face before she can stop it.

“I’m eating just fine, thank you.” He raises a brow at her tone, tightens his hands and she blows out a breath that catches one of his curls. “It’s. I’m fine, Tom. Just having, I guess one could call it some anxiety.” She twists her wrists, feels like she’s been more open with him, and the strangeness that it feels being honest with him. This kind of communication is unheard of in their marriage.

“Anxiety? From what?” His eyes catch hers, and she doesn’t know if it’s just her, if no one else is allowed to be this close to him, has anyone else seen the rim of rust that’s hidden in the dark. She doesn’t think so.

“It feels like there’s something wrong.” What is she doing, her panic is detached, alienated. “Like there’s this string, this curiosity, like there’s a wall, cobbled together, and it feels like I don’t want to know what’s on the other side. It feels like pain and bitterness.” She blinks, feels the rim of tears break, and fall down her face. She feels hollow. Sad but not sad. “What did you give me?” There’s no emotion, she’s just as indifferent to this as she would be to asking for the time. His eyes are just as dark, just as focused on her as he was since the beginning (since the beginning) but he sighs and purses his lips.

“A strong sedative for your emotions and a highly effective strain of Veritaserum that’s keyed to my magical signature.” The sheen of her tears is ever evolving and more flow down her face, she wants to sob and she feels slowly, surely the staunching of the cracks in her mind. Sad, not sad, devastated but still breathing. Love not hate, but her hate has been pulled out of her, and now she’s just what he’s made her.

“I wish you would put me out of my misery. I wish you would finish this torture. I wish I could do it myself.” He looks at her with almost pity. Almost.

“Darling. Dear, sweet Harriet. Killing you would be like killing myself, and I have no intention for doing either.” At least he doesn’t smile at her, just keeps looking at her like a puzzle he hasn’t quite solved yet. “Tell me you love me.” He commands and it comes out of her lips instantly, and she means every word. She loves him, it’s intrinsic in her, the sun rises, she loves Tom Marvolo Riddle. That will never be the question.

She kisses the hands the grip hers, and breathes, “If only you loved me.” More tears fall, but more open mouth kisses do as well. He says nothing, and she accepts that. He loosens his grip entirely and she pulls belt from trousers, and he takes hold of it before she can place it with the other items. She swallows, feels a strange sort of panic try to reach her but it’s gone as quickly as it came.

“I hate it when you hit me.” She doesn’t stop from undoing his trousers, like she doesn’t look at his eyes when she continues to undress him. “I hate that you keep me in this house, that you’ve made me little more than a ghost. I’m nothing but an extension of you and you only want me when it’s convenient.” She stops, breathes, feels the slow distant agony of her miserable little life flash before her eyes, and slides his trousers off when he stands before her. Tilts her head, thinking when he lifts one foot up, and then the other to rid them completely. “That’s not true, you want me all the time. You want to fuck me, and debase me, and own me.” She hears his quiet inhale, sees the chub of his prick at her words, he seldom wears pants in the summer. “You don’t love me. You’ve never loved me. But I can live with that. I can live with you. I want you. I love you.” She finally looks at him, on her knees, the fire colliding in his eyes when they meet hers. “You say you can’t kill me, you won’t kill me. But, Tom. You have to know you already are.” The frightened parts of her are whimpering, but she can’t hear them over the numbness of her truth.

He starts to lay a warm palm over her face and even drugged calm she flinches. His face is stone, impassive, there is nothing there. His hand returns to his side, the hand holding the belt drops it.

She presses one solid kiss to his belly, rubs her face across the planes and angles and sits back on her heels to take his cock in her mouth. She puts her hands on his sharp hips and lets herself feel the heft of him in her mouth. She sucks him down, worshipping him, swirling her tongue around the head and relaxing her throat so that he can slide into her depths, so she can choke on him. She’s feels the bump of his gland in her throat and she finally (yes, finally) hears him moan, feels him wrap his strong, beautiful hands around her head.

He doesn’t force her, just lets her bob up and down, sometimes puts his hand on her throat to feel his prick. She moans, looks up at him with diamond wet eyes, and takes him deeper still. She’s got him sloppy wet, and she’s a mess but she won’t take him out of her mouth. Trying to suck all the bad and ugliness out of him, feels him smooth that thought away in her own head. He gets impossibly larger in her mouth and he stutters his hips, trapping (but she’s not going anywhere, anyway) her head as he blows down her throat. She swallows, fights the cough that wants to come out of her, and bounces on her heels, up and down, keeping it all inside her.

He smiles down at her, and she can’t stop herself, “I love your come, I love it, in me, on me. I want it.” Her face goes eight shades of red but she keeps his eyes, hungry now as they are. He helps her to her feet, her legs will have to be cut off they’re so numb, but he runs hands down them, and she moans herself, her mouth running away again. “I love your hands as well, your beautiful hands. I love them on me, I love when you put them inside me.” He gets on his knees now, nosing her belly, his hands on her hips, wrapped around her.

“Oh, Harri,” He moans into her skin, “the things you do to me.” He pulls her down to him, rolling close to the fire that crackles on their skin, and she feels the first real sweat start on the small of her back. He slides his pants off her at the same time she pulls her shirt over her head.

And there they are.

Naked, exposed and the calmness she’s felt since the tea sits deep in the well of her belly and she smiles at him, watches the slide of his eyes at her teeth and thinks, you’re more animal than man sometimes, and pushes up until she can chase his frown away with her mouth.

His kisses are. Heaven. He takes her mouth with his, and he’s perfect, he catches her lips and he uses enough tongue and teeth that she can’t think straight, until she can feel the ghost of his cock, feels her cunt tighten around nothing, wants him in the deepest parts of her. He makes her undone. He slides his knees between hers, and catches her neck in the same tease as her mouth, slides his mouth down her body that has her moaning and dragging her hands through his hair. She wraps a lovely curl around her finger and she’s in love with these whisks. He’s all smiles around a nipple and the connection twists between them, she rolls her eyes, soft and dreamy (it’s been years since she’s done that, since she’s had anything resembling a personality) and mutters, “You’re fiendishly handsome.” He chuffs out a low laugh, lathes a nipple and bites playfully, making her moan and tilt her cunt up to run against him.

“I think I like you like this.” There’s a tilt to his mouth that she hasn’t seen in a long time. Far too long. The softness of her mouth slips away into something resembling sourness, at his casual treatment of her dubious consent. Tears fall, cursed, wretched tears that have never done her any good, and will never help, but they come. They always come.

“I could love you without them.” It’s whispered, in the fragile air of this too quiet moment.

It is a hand extended in the dark, a hand that has been bit over and over, but nevertheless it reaches out, it reaches for him. In the catacombs of her mind, where wrongs and wonder are buried the same depth down, she still knows that he has taken her feelings and shaped them better to his liking. The string stirs, the wall trembles, he licks at her body, his hands wrap tighter around her hips, and didn’t she fall in love with those elegant digits first? Ink and chalk and maturity. Just like father.

She snaps back. Blinks and blinks and he’s stopped, his head resting on her belly and his eyes watching the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

“I don’t ever want to find out if that’s true.” She nods, clenches fist in nanoseconds. With this ring, I thee wed. With this mouth, I will worship. With this body, I will serve only you.  
  
The anger is a kindling, small and damp. It will not start. Her sadness, always within reach, still dances from her fingertips. The cuts that he has made into her very soul, the darkest, dank place where only he lives inside her, don’t hurt in the same sharp way. Her ruin is out of her control. It is something that he owns.

The thoughts slips away like smoke, like how he enters her mind, quiet and unobtrusive.

He watches her, eyes dark, flicking between her panic and the tightness of her nipples.

If she only.

If she could only be enough for him. In one way or another.

His reaches up and thumbs the tears off her cheeks, rub them into her blush. Into the quiet of her open mouth.

“Harri, darling, if I could- “ He stops himself, gathers himself to his knees and swallows her sadness with his mouth. He clutches at her, dragging her closer, closer until she sits on his knees and his hands are wrapped around her head, twisted in the mess of her hair, grabbing at her naked arse and thighs.

“Don’t think about it, darling.” He licks into her open mouth and she swallows his spit as easily as her own. Her hands tangle in his curls, and she rubs the soft short fuzz at the base of his skull. There’s warmth on his skin and in his embrace, and she breathes. She just breathes. He kisses her neck, hot and opened mouth and she kitten licks the smattering of freckles on his shoulder.

Breathes out. Breathes in. Tastes her tears on his skin.

“I will take care of you, I give you my word, Harri. It will get better.” The sedative - she runs fingers down his arm, the dip and curve of his muscle, his strength so apparent - will become as familiar as the potion.

Maybe. The calm will be better. Anything has to be better than this half existence. This torment.

“Please.” She begs with her mouth, with her hands, with her body, but most of all with her eyes. Her eyes catch his, fathomless, everything dark and deadly and lovely. He’s caught her, completely, lost in his eyes forever. He captures her mouth again, pushes her down to the floor, so he can continue his assault.

He sucks her nipples, tongue flicking out to taste the damp sweat of her. In the hollow (empty, emptiness) of her throat, he runs his tongue across her collarbone, tip to tip. He finds her sweetness in the underside of the heft of breasts, the ribs that bleed through her skin. She wonders if he can stand her heartache, if he can stomach the bitterness in her aftertaste. He bites lightly the swell of her right thigh, his eyes catching hers in the firelight.

She reminds herself that the only ruin here is his. He pushes her thighs apart, slowly, achingly tender. Licks the pearl of her arousal that has gathered outside of her, spreads her legs so he can get to her insides.

“I’m addicted to you, Harri, the sweet taste of your cunt,” he says between mouthfuls of her, “the salty taste of your tears.” A smirk this time, she can never catch the plume of his smoke. “The way you wrap tight,” He over enunciates, pulling her to him so he can drape himself over her, slide his middle finger right inside her, “so tight around me.” It’s been years and it still feels like the first time, every time.

“I love to taste you on my lips, after. I love to smell you on me.” The sound of her is loud, her slick smeared around his mouth and his hand. She groans with the finger fucking, the soft way he takes her when his mouth ravages her again. She can taste herself in his canines.

He repeats the process over again, this time nipping at her flesh, biting slowly, unflinchingly down on her shoulder long enough that he breaks the skin. She gasps, he lets her jerk away, but she smiles, languid as a cat, as hot as the pussy that still clenches around his fingers. She’s grown fond of this. Achingly rough, but slow, like molasses, like the way her slick gathers between her thighs. He keeps his eyes on her, all the way down to her center, noses at the slick skin, keeps his fingers in her still, pumping with exaggerated deliberateness, he likes the sounds she makes.

“Harri, I’m going to eat you out now, and I want you to be my very good girl.” She nods, bottom lip trapped right between shiny white teeth. He taps her from inside. She pulls her legs up, trapping herself in half, and spreads the lips of her cunt. His eyes flicker down, his mouth full of want. “Yes, yes just like that.” He licks a path from her knee down, pushing her more into his space, the space he’s made for her. She jumps, nowhere to go, when he licks a stripe up and around her clit, soft and sweet like when she was younger. He kisses her down there, and she rocks her head back, a moan that starts somewhere around her toes trickling out her. He kisses her clit the same way he kisses her mouth. The barest pressure of teeth after he sucks her into his mouth, a lick, a suck, a lick. Soft, soft, soft like a tease, then a hint of his teeth (he can’t help himself, she realizes, she likes it comes a lick later), then that wonderful tongue rubbing itself off against her. She clenches on nothing but air, aching for him in her bones.

He swirls again, and her clit is swollen, lost in her slick, it’s gloriously messy, and she cries hallelujah when his fingers finally come back inside her. He pushes one, rubs against the place inside her that only he’s touched (he’s only the ever one), adds another because she’s so wet, she’s so _wet_. Pulls away to suck hickeys up and down her thighs and she jumps every time, pulls her lips apart until she can feel her nails dig in, feel her soreness already. He mouths her hands, tongue gliding between her fingers, tasting her above and below and everywhere in between.

“More.” He growls into her skin and that’s all the warning she gets before she feels the world dipslideslip sideways, over and out and she lands stomach down on their bed, her dizziness fading as soon as she feels the solid weight of him behind her. He pushes her legs wide, _wider_ , he growls as he kneels behind her. She pulls herself apart, sinking into the face that he buried inside her. His fingers slide back in, feel like he’s come home to roost, come home to stay. He grinds three inside of her and her hips pick up on his tempo, a snake charmers dip and push that only he can control. He licks from one empty hole to another and she chokes on a filthy groan. His tongue rides the constant highway of her slick north and south, until he makes a place for himself in the softness of the hole that isn’t holding his fingers. She grinds harder, back a perfect arch to take him. His tongue wanders around her rim, her nerves alight, her legs already shaking from the buildup of this sweet torture. He gets at an angle that allows him to put a steady pressure on her clit, a sweet little rubrubrub that has her clenching on fingers and tongue.

“Come for me, come, Harri.” He whispers against wet flesh, setting his teeth into the roundness, dragging them across her crease and she gives one quick churn of her hips, the light washing over her, feels like the world starts to come in and out, and she rides his fingers and his mouth and his love, yes, this feels like love inside her and around her and yes, yes, thank you, thank you, thank you.

Her foolish heart beats loud, sounds swollen in her ears and inside her head, lethargy coming in hard and fast.

He pushes her to her back, sliding into her, onto her, holding her quaking thighs close to his shoulders, and she moans, rolls her eyes up until the whites show. Feels like this is too much, too soon, and still feels nothing at all.

“Tell me you love me. Tell me you’d rather die than be without me.” She can smell the mix of them on his breath, the decay of her sweetness. Means every word that comes out of her mouth, catches his eyes, and holds them. Sees smoke in the corners of her mind and doesn’t feel the tenseness that usually comes with it. Can’t feel the string, the curiosity at all now.

“It’s you, Tom. Only you, forever you. I love you, I love you, I love you. I’m yours. Everything I am, is yours.” She gasps out in between the fucking, in between the feel that he’s taking her apart. He jerks her legs higher, his rhythm more off, more punishing. He buries his face into the dark sweat of her neck, jerks her harder on his dick and breaks off a moan. She feels the ragged pumps, the same way she does when she comes, the thump thump thump of his prick coming inside her. She puts her arms around him, holds him close, kisses the sweat from his brow when he turns his head for air.

Closes her eyes and breathes calmly.

Opens her eyes to the morning coming in from curtains. Disoriented for only a moment until she sees Tom. He’s partially dressed, the Prophet opened on the table and he’s leaning down to look at it closer.

His shirt hangs open, shows his pale and beautiful chest, the mark she sucked into his skin last night looks sore and lovely.

She watches him from the bed, worn out and sweet sore in the best ways. He smiles, so soft and mellow, and to anyone else it’s a smirk, it’s pretentious but it’s nothing but light and love for her. He taps 15 inches of elder on the delicate rim of a teacup, watches the liquid swirl together before he brings it to her bedside.

“Every drop now, Harri.” She takes it between even more delicate fingers, blows the steam so it catches a curl where he’s leaned down so close to her.

Drinks and knows where he leads, she will follow.

 


End file.
